


intro to sophistication

by actualvisionary



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee Shops, F/F, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 07:27:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3969341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualvisionary/pseuds/actualvisionary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when you work in a drab hole-in-the-wall coffee shop all day, your days are dull. when you go to a prestigious private school, spend your weekends in your backyard pool, afternoons shopping with your mother's platinum card, your days are anything but. </p>
<p>or </p>
<p>lexa is tatted up, working in a coffee shop, and thoroughly fucking bored. clarke's a schoolgirl in a cute lil uniform who wants a tattoo for her eighteenth birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this right here is a lil prologue/intro/something to introduce you to the world etc. of this fic. tada.

Lexa was bored. 

She hated her job—no, she _fucking_ hated her job. 

The brick building was drab, the interior following suit, and the clientele were all a fucking nightmare. She didn’t see the attraction, didn’t see why all the rich white ladies from the gated developments chose the shop for their morning, mid-morning, lunch, mid-afternoon, and evening caffeine fixes, she just didn’t. She could see the hipster appeal: the wooden booths, vintage barstools, dimly lit atmosphere, and pool table in the back corner. But she really didn’t fucking understand what the deal was with all the white women. 

The ones in their late thirties, forties, and sometimes fifties, who seemed to travel in packs, occasionally accompanied by pristine looking sons and daughters. Fucking rich kids. Boys in pastel chinos, girls in floral mini-dresses. 

And of course Lexa had no real reason for the hatred she held, she kind of just couldn’t help it. Maybe she was jealous. Of their big allowances, their pretty made-up faces, their I-have-everything attitudes, their beautiful lives. Just maybe. 

Maybe, because she wasn’t unhappy, just bored. Of the same job and the same people day after day after fucking day. 

And yeah, ripping on the rich helped her get through her shifts, so she wasted not a single square millimeter of her heart feeling bad. 

And—

_“Lexa._

_…Lexa._

Lexa, snap out of it! Wake up. Hello?” 

She shook her head—she’d zoned out again. Too far, maybe. But there were so many things to whine about these days, and her head was just about the only place to do it. 

“Yeah. Yeah, what?” She finally got out, blinking herself back into the real world. 

Bellamy Blake stood before her, tall and scruffy and grungy looking as he was, with his curly black hair just barely reaching down into his eyes, and his black tee stretched taut across his pecs, and _no,_ Lexa wasn’t staring at his chest. She was…observing the wildlife in its natural habitat of behind-the-bar in the coffee shop. 

“Your break was over five minutes ago.” He was totally scolding her. “Pay attention. You’re on the register. Go.” 

And so she went, grumbling under her breath about breaks and minutes and Bellamy Blake and his stupid hair. 

There was a line waiting for her, albeit a small one, but still a line. Beginning with, yep, you guessed it, a forty-something-year-old white woman who looked like she drove a Range Rover, or a Mercedes, or something else that cost more than Lexa’s entire house. 

“Hi,” she greeted, plastering on one of her blinding fake smiles. “What can I get for you today?” 

The woman looked thoroughly unamused. She looked like she had to try _real_ hard not to roll her eyes at Lexa. Lexa had to try real hard not to roll her eyes right back. 

“Yes, hi. Could I please have a large hazelnut dark roast. With room for milk.” 

“Sure.” Lexa rung her up. “That’ll be three-twenty. Name?” 

The woman handed her a platinum card. A platinum card for a Goddamn three dollar coffee. So typical. 

“Abby,” the woman said. 

Lexa scrawled the name on the paper cup—“All right, Abby”—and went forth to get the white woman her drink. 

Rich dark roast filled the cup, and Lexa pumped the hazelnut syrup in afterward, making sure to leave the lady room for her milk. Skim, probably, if Lexa knew anything about these people. 

“Hey, Mrs. Griffin,” she heard Bellamy call out somewhere behind her. 

And, “Hi, Bell! How’s life treating you?” came the white lady’s reply. 

“Good, good,” he told her. “It’s nice being a working man.” 

Lexa approached with the woman’s coffee as she was telling Bellamy it must be, and to say hello to his sister for her. Leave it to Bellamy, Lexa thought, to be on a first name basis with the rich white women. 

Lexa handed Abby her drink. 

“Enjoy your coffee, Mrs. Griffin,” Bellamy said, and skirted off to tend to the register. 

The woman wore a ghost of a smile, though Lexa was sure she saw a hint of a smirk in there, and she had to keep herself from gagging because leave it to Bellamy to have the rich white ladies swooning over him. She did have to admit that Westchester County was cougar fucking central, if you’re into that. 

Lexa wasn’t into that—she liked her girls young. Seventeen, eighteen, with just enough less experience that Lexa could bestow her knowledge upon them. 

She’d turned her back, every intention of returning to her work, however reluctantly, when Abby spoke again—

“Excuse me?” 

Lexa turned, eyebrows raised, expectant look adorning her features. “Yeah?” 

“I have to ask,” Abby began, “where did you get your tattoos done?” 

“Oh. These?” Lexa’s gaze dropped to her arms, inked in black and vibrant colors, and gave a small shrug of her shoulders. “My cousin. He’s got a, uh, shop just out of town.” 

Half the time Lexa forgot about her ink. It’d been part of her skin for years now, it was just as much a part of her as any of her other features. 

“My daughter—her eighteenth birthday is next month, and she’s been asking for her first tattoo since Christmas. Your cousin, is he a trustworthy professional?”

A trustworthy professional? Lexa couldn’t remember ever having to try so hard to stop her eyes from rolling skyward at that. Gustus was…well, he was something. Trustworthy, yes. Professional, yes. A child at heart? Oh, absolutely. Lexa would just love to see the white lady and her daughter strut into his shop, shoulders squared, heads held high, looking for all the world like they were wannabe royalty. They’d stick out like sheep among wolves. 

“Sure, yeah.” Lexa cocked her chin, nodding. “He’s amazing.” 

“I have to run,” Abby told her while rummaging through her purse, locating her wallet, and extracting a little white business card. No, not white. Eggshell. _For fuck’s sake,_ Lexa thought, and took the card. “Would you mind passing my card along to your cousin? He can call anytime, I’d love to get some more information from him.” 

_Lady,_ Lexa thought, _that’s not how this shit works. You contact the tattoo artists, they don’t fucking contact you. They aren’t there to do your bidding, they’re there to do solid work you pay them the big bucks for. Fuck’s sake._

“Uh. Okay. Sure.” 

Abby offered a smile, this one remotely genuine, and left the shop. Lexa couldn’t help it now, shaking her head while pocketing the business card. Chances were she’d forget about it, but maybe not. Maybe she’d give Gus a call that evening. 

Her shift was uneventful from then on until she clocked out. More coffees, lattes, pretentious pastries, the whole shebang. Lexa’d been ready to leave before she’d even clocked in that morning. She mumbled a sleepy goodbye to Bellamy after hanging up her apron, fetching her bag from the break room, right before she pushed through the front door and out into the evening. 

By the time she got to the bus stop, white ladies and Gus and tattoos were the last thing on her mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!! this chapter is a little intro to clarke's world, letting you know a bit of what's goin' on with her. it's short, and i apologize for that. the next chapter will be longer, and our leading ladies will meet soon. promise!

Clarke was tired. 

It was two-ten on a Friday afternoon and she was itching to leave campus. Octavia, too. Beside her she could feel the little brunette firecracker bouncing her knee at hummingbird pace, and out of the corner of her eye could see pearly white teeth nibbling on the end of a pen. 

Fridays were the fucking worst. 

And her uniform was getting on her fucking nerves. The white button-down’s collar was ass-tight, practically chafing her neck with the tie she wore, and her skirt was so short she nearly flashed her panties to the entire back row. And her thigh-highs, fucking Christ, they wouldn’t stay up on her thighs, and Clarke was growing sick and tired of pulling them back up every five minutes. 

And she’d lost track of whatever Kane was trying to teach them. Something about Hegel, or Descartes, or Sartre, or some fucking philosopher that Clarke had long ago lost track of. 

She felt her phone vibrate on her lap and dropped her gaze to read the message beneath the table. 

**Octavia: my place or yours tonight? i miss u :(**

Clarke felt herself crack a little smile and bit it down, holding her lip between her teeth. 

**Yours,** she typed, **didn’t you say you had something to show me this weekend?** and hit send.

Beside her, a moment later, Octavia’s bouncing knee knocked into the underside of the table, sending a few wayward glances in her direction and catching the attention of Kane. 

“Everything all right, Octavia?” He asked, thick brows raised ( _they look like caterpillars,_ Octavia thought, _fuzzy caterpillars_ ). 

“Yes,” she muttered, “sir.” 

Clarke could swear she saw a blush begin to creep onto the younger girls cheeks, but Octavia ducked her head, and silky brown hair blocked Clarke’s view. 

A moment later Clarke received another text. 

**Octavia: clarke griffin!**

And another. 

**Octavia: i do. it isn’t school appropriate, shame on you.**

Clarke tucked her phone away after that, safe into the zip-up front pocket of her backpack, and tried to pay attention. It was Sartre that Kane was talking about, and Clarke was absolutely, undoubtedly, as lost as a girl can be in a junior history class. 

When the bell rang at two-thirty half the classroom flew out of their seats only to be scolded by Kane, who day after day insisted that “the bell doesn’t dismiss you, _I_ dismiss you,” to which they all grumbled some variation of yeah, yeah, we know, Clarke and Octavia among them. 

“For homework I want you to read chapter fifteen in the textbook, and take notes. At least one handwritten page, all right?” He clapped his hands together, gave a nod, and waved a hand toward the door. “All right. You’re dismissed, get out of here.” 

Octavia had Clarke by the hand and out the door in the blink of an eye, and Clarke found herself barreling down the hallway at a near sprint to keep up with the girl. They didn’t stop until they reached the parking lot, which Octavia insisted they never run through, for safety purposes, of course, which Clarke didn’t fully understand because Octavia was okay with running just about everywhere, but let her have her way. 

“Where are you going in such a hurry today?” she asked, nudging the brunette with her shoulder. 

“Nowhere.” Octavia shook her head. “My house. I have something to show you, remember?”

“Right now?” Clarke raised her eyebrows, shooting Octavia a look. “Aren’t we supposed to meet up with Raven and Wick? Could’ve sworn she said something about rallying at her place tonight.” 

The Ark, a shiny white Mercedes G-Wagon, and Clarke’s sixteenth birthday present, waited for them at the far corner of the lot. Clarke fished her keys from her bag and unlocked the vehicle, observing with a keen smile as Octavia hunkered down in the passenger seat, legs tucked in, perched criss-cross on the leather seat, head tilted back on the headrest. 

“Yes, _tonight,”_ Octavia clarified. “It’s not even three, it’s nowhere near nighttime.” 

“So, your place?”

“My place.” Octavia nodded. “But don’t move yet, let me roll up first.” 

As far as Clarke was concerned, Octavia was a wizard with rolling papers. She could craft a beautiful joint in two minutes flat, a blunt in four. And boy, the girl could hold her highs. Jasper and Monty couldn’t even keep up with her most days. 

As far as Clarke was concerned, Octavia was a most fascinating specimen. 

And she looked damn cute in her uniform with a joint hanging from her lips, and it made Clarke think of the first time they smoked in her car. 

It was a Tuesday, sophomore year, and Octavia was still the new girl, and Bellamy was still overprotective, so Octavia’d told him she was staying after to study with a friend. Enter Clarke. She’d offered her car, her time, her friendship, her weed, and they’d hit it the fuck off. Spent their first afternoon giggling in the backseat of the Ark, sitting just close enough so their knees kept bumping, shoulders, too, hands kept brushing, and Clarke found it oddly comforting for a first day spent with Octavia. 

There’d been so many days just like the first, and there still were, and Clarke loved every minute of every single one of them. They fit, Clarke thought, _like puzzle pieces._ Thinking about it made her smile. 

“Mm,” Octavia mumbled. “Here, take this.” 

She’d lit the joint, given it a few pulls; Clarke thought Octavia looked like an angel when she smoked. There was something about the contrast of schoolgirl uniforms and smoking that drove her _bananas._

Or maybe it was just Octavia that made her head all fuzzy and made her heart pick up a beat. 

Probably. 

Clarke took the joint with a nod, tucked it between her lips, and twisted her keys in the ignition, pulling out of the parking lot and pulling smoke into her lungs. Octavia was staring at her from the passenger seat, side of her head against the headrest, and Clarke couldn’t decide if her eyes were gray or green or blue today. 

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Clarke mumbled, speaking with half her mouth while she kept her lips clamped on the filter between her lips. 

“You,” Octavia replied, and reached to give Clarke’s tie a little tug. “Gimme.” 

Clarke passed off the joint. With Octavia her head was already in the clouds, add pot, and it was in the fucking stratosphere. Her eyelids drooped, a tingle extended the length of her spine—even her fingertips felt heavy. It was a welcomed feeling, one of freedom, expression, and rebellion, and Clarke savored every minute she spent in such a state. Everything was a little easier when she was stoned. The drive to the Blake household felt like five minutes, when it took fifteen, and she hadn’t even realized Octavia’d flipped on the stereo until she found herself humming along with a song she couldn’t for the life of her name. 

“Will you give me a hint?” Clarke asked finally, glancing at Octavia with a hopeful look in her reddening eyes. 

“A hint as to what?” 

Clarke ducked her chin, sharpening her gaze, and her lips tugged into a tiny smirk. “As to what it is you plan on showing me this afternoon, O.” 

“Ah…” Octavia thought about it, or pretended to, gaze swooping skyward, lips curling at the corners, cheeks flushing with a twinge of red. “No,” she said, and grinned. “Absolutely not. 

Knowing Octavia, it could be anything. Literally. Last time she’d wanted to show Clarke something it’d been a horror movie that kept her up at night for a week. 

Octavia was a wild card, and Clarke was rarely disappointed. 

“All right, O.” 

“It’s a good something, I promise.” 

“I trust you.” 

Octavia leaned across the center console, arm outstretched, fingers curled into her palm, and stroked her knuckles along the curve of Clarke’s jaw, muttering, “I know.” 

She’d been truthful, it turned out, and Clarke wasn’t surprised. The two found themselves curled around Octavia’s laptop atop her queen bed, the blonde observing in awe, jaw nearly on the floor, while Octavia bit back her giggles. 

Maybe Clarke was just real high and that was why she felt something down there, but Octavia was flipping through picture after picture of scantily clad women in black leather collars, of all things, and Clarke could feel the heat in her cheeks. Leave it to O, Clarke thought. 

“Y-you want me to _collar_ you?” Clarke asked, half in shock, half impressed with Octavia’s request. 

“Oh no.” Octavia shook her head, a wicked grin spreading across her pink lips. _“I_ want to collar _you._ I want to _top.”_

Clarke blinked. Oh. “Oh.” My. 

Well that was fucking new. 

Leave it to Octavia Blake. 

“You’re always on top, Clarke.” Octavia was, oh no, she was _pouting,_ and Clarke nearly melted, fell to pieces, nearly fell to her knees. “And don’t get me wrong, I love it. You’re good to me, _so_ good to me. But I wanna switch, just this once.” 

“Mm.” 

“Think about it, at least?” Octavia pleaded with her. 

And—

“Okay.”


End file.
